


As The Days Go By

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Freckles, Johnlock Roulette, London Eye - Freeform, M/M, a day in the life, broadswords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just an ordinary Tuesday.  With a possible beheading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As The Days Go By

**Author's Note:**

> The weekend starts early! To ensure I finish this series before my trip next week, there will be two stories today as well as on Saturday and Sunday. Hopefully, this is good news...

My love of life just gets stronger  
as the days go by. Some things  
I wish they would last just a  
little bit longer as the days go  
by.  
-Daryl Braithwaite

 

It was a quite ordinary day.

Admittedly, it was more pleasant than the usual late autumn Tuesday in London, but beyond that basic meteorological fact there was absolutely nothing to set this day apart from any other.

That being said, of course, even an ordinary day in 221B was often quite noteworthy. Noteworthy, in this context, could mean a day that might include blood, flame, poison, and occasionally guns and/or broadswords.

This Tuesday began just after 06:00, at least it did for Sherlock Holmes who, when he deigned to sleep at all, tended to be an early waker. He opened his eyes and mused for some little time on a new freckle that had appeared on John’s back. Mentally, he drew a line linking the new freckle with three already established ones, creating a rather perfect square.

Pleased with himself [both on general principle and because he had created that lovely square] but even more pleased by the continuing perfection of his bed partner, Sherlock decided to let John sleep and slipped away to shower. Since there were no plans for the day, he simply dressed in a clean tee and pajama trousers, then tugged on his blue dressing gown.

He was in the kitchen, thinking about exerting himself to the extent of actually making some tea, but before the thought could become action, he heard John stirring. A moment later, the shower came on, so he decided that he might as well wait a bit and have a very good cup of tea. To fill the time, he sat at John’s laptop to see if any interesting cases had appeared overnight.

No such luck.

It had been three days since they’d solved The Case of the Naughty Nun. John’s title, of course, and while mildly amusing, it was also wildly inaccurate. She had not actually been a nun, after all, and ‘naughty’ as a description seemed a bit of an understatement in light of the triple homicide. But John persisted in his whimsy. And, really, Sherlock was quite all right with that.

But that had been three days ago! Nothing since. God, it was so boring.

He was still brooding over the unfairness of a world with no interesting crimes when his flatmate, shaved, dressed, and smelling rather nice, came into the kitchen. “Morning,” John said.

Sherlock grunted. “Tea, please,” he said then. 

John stopped and looked at him. “You know,” he said mildly, “I make tea every bloody morning. No need to order it up. Though the ‘please’ is a nice touch.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “I don’t want you to feel taken for granted,” he explained.

John grinned.

 

Sherlock was caressing John’s gun absently as he considered adding another smiley face to the wall. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor John would be pleased, but Mrs. Hudson would always forgive him and if John didn’t want him shooting up the place, then he shouldn’t have gone off to Tesco’s and thus let boredom fill the void created by his absence.

On the other hand, it was possible he could suggest having sex when John came back and if the sound of gunfire was what greeted his return, John would probably not be in the mood. Undoubtedly, Sherlock could get him in the mood, but it would perhaps require more effort than he was prepared to exert at the moment.

It was probably all for the best, then, that he was still mulling over his options when John returned. The shopping was put away in the kitchen before John noticed what Sherlock was doing. He sighed and came to take the gun away, before joining the detective on the sofa.

Conversation was unnecessary and probably annoying at the moment. John just relaxed as Sherlock stretched out and rested his head in the always-welcoming lap. Sherlock hummed as John’s fingers began to comb slowly through his hair.

They were both in a near doze when Sherlock’s phone rang. With little hope for a day that was so unrelentingly dull, he nevertheless answered it quickly.

John must have seen something in Sherlock’s face as he listened to Lestrade, because he reached for his shoes and his gun in that order.  
Sherlock shoved his phone away. “This could be good, John!” he said, looking like a little boy about to open his shiniest Xmas gift.

John smiled at him and Sherlock hurried off to dress.

 

And it was really, really good.

There was mystery and murder and then a foot chase along the Thames that ended, most improbably, in one of the glass capsules of the London Eye. John, Sherlock, and a wild-eyed, steroid-juiced ex-footballer with a broadsword [!!] faced off in an otherwise empty capsule.

The wheel kept turning until somebody finally had the good sense to turn it off, by which time they were at the halfway point.

John was steady as an oak as he held his gun up and Sherlock realised all over again what an absolute wonder John Watson was.

Then the ex-footballer decided [erroneously, egregiously so] that his best chance lay in separating Sherlock’s head from his neck and he charged forward to do just that.

The bullet was perfectly placed between the hapless idiot’s eyes.

God, Sherlock thought, I love that man.

It was several hours later before they walked back into 221B. Sherlock unloaded the Chinese takeaway from the bag as John put the kettle on. They collapsed on the sofa to eat and, occasionally, chuckle over the expressions on the faces of both the tourists and Lestrade’s people when the capsule reached the ground again. The villain was sprawled in a pool of blood while Sherlock and John were pressed shoulder to shoulder against the glass, looking at and commenting on the sites of London.

“You were brilliant,” John said, finishing a dumpling. “The way you figured out why the first victim was painted blue.”

Sherlock didn’t quite smile. “Obvious, really. But your shot was magnificent.”

“Huh. Too bad for him that I actually like your head exactly where it is, so there was no choice.”

A short time later, John announced that he was going to bed.

As happened frequently, Sherlock picked up his violin instead.

John kissed his cheek and took himself off to the bedroom, leaving Sherlock to construct his mental file of the events of the day and find a place to stash it within the Mind Palace.

 

The day had just a few minutes remaining when Sherlock finally slid into bed and wrapped himself around a sleeping John. He was not unaware that he liked to make each day last as long as possible, because every moment spent with John was a treasure. Much, much better than the pirate’s plunder he had dreamt of as a boy.

Sherlock smiled a little and pressed a kiss to John’s neck as Mrs. Hudson’s grandfather clock started to strike twelve.

The very ordinary Tuesday was over.

fini


End file.
